A Better Woman Than You

One of the bad parts about staying in the same town that you graduated college in is that inevitably, you'll run into people from your past who you would rather not see. Like today when I unexpectedly bumped into one of the ex's little slips in fidelity. It had been awhile since I'd seen her; even longer since I'd seen her in the same room as myself and the ex. If counting my two relationships since him was any indicator, I've obviously moved on. I don't wish her a quick slip and a bad fall anymore. I don't spend my nights obsessively checking her Facebook profile to see what she's been up to lately (answer then would have been, "having more of a life than you are obsessively checking her page, dipshit,") anymore, either. In fact, it was kind of a shock to see her and instantly remember that, well, she exists. So I did the natural thing, which, in this case, also happened to the the right thing: I smiled genuinely at her, and said, "Hi, _____, how have you been?"

And she barely looked at me. She said a flat "hi" back, and moved on with whatever it was she was doing. For a moment, I was PISSED. Look, I've been the Other Woman (with the same guy, nonetheless!) in the past, so I know what running into the First Woman entails-- You smile politely, but not too much, lest she think you're mocking her. You speak first. You say a genuine, polite "hello" or "hey." If she engages you in conversation after that, you stick to neutral topics-- the weather, work, school, recent plans (that DON'T involve the man in both of your lives). You DON'T just ignore her. Because here's the thing, if you don't at least smile and say hi, then you're being a bitch. And if you happen to the the First Woman, you end up having yet another reason to hate the Other Woman even more. Basically, I was mad because I slipped back into the thinking that if you have the balls to want to share my relationship's bed, you BEST have the balls to meet my eye when you see me. Otherwise, I'm going to think that you're a coward, not a threat, and start to question my partner's interest in you in the first place and if you're what he wants to run around with, than is he really the sort of man I should be with? There's a very particular sort of woman who lurks around the outskirts of your life, looking in, wanting what you have, and is all bark behind your back and no real bite, and those are the women I can't fucking STAND. And THAT is EXACTLY the sort of woman who doesn't have the social grace or class to actually buck up, be a big girl, and converse like an actual person.

All of this flashed through my mind in about a nanosecond, dragging with it all the old feelings of spite and envy and mistrust and haughtiness. Then, something else happened-- I suddenly realized that I had no right to feel ANY of those ways about her anymore, as I was no longer (obviously) with the ex, and neither was she, either. I realized that if she couldn't even look my in the eyes now, over a year after everything between all of us went down, well, that was telling. About her, about her character, and about how she felt about the whole situation. And so, I kept on walking, letting it slide, and feeling vaguely protective of her, and the innocence and naivety that she exposed by not knowing how to do the right thing. Because, when it comes down to it, there are always going to be other women out there who are either trying to get a rise out of you, or you are trying to get a rise out of, yourself. (I would be lying if I said I was currently engaged in a game of electronic "chicken" myself.) We all have it in ourselves to be bitches. We all know exactly how to hurt other women. But that's all rather childish, and should be behind us by now, like how I realized that what she thinks or does no longer has any impact in my life, not even if she refuses to respond to my greeting. What really proves who the bigger (and better) woman is is who smiles and says that theoretical "hi" first. And I am now DEDICATED to being that better woman.

XOXO

Hush-- Staying Silent.

I don't think there's ever a worse time for a girl to start crying than after having sex while still in bed with her lover, and yet, that's where I found myself the other day.

It wasn't him, not at all, and it wasn't me, either-- it was my past. My past is a bit colorful. As may have been previously stated, I haven't always had the best taste in or luck with men. One of my past relationships manifested this trait physically-- I was manhandled (quite literally) in a way that's left me with some residual emotional scars and idiosyncrasies, which seem to pop up at the most inconvenient times. A classic sign-- I'm loathe to actually call it "abuse," which of course means that I'm in denial about it and it was, in fact, abuse. I just hate to think of myself-- me: loud, dominating, confident, and proud-- as a victim. I don't consider myself a victim-- just someone who was too young, too naive, and too inexperienced to do something about it. And because of these facts, I've almost never admitted to it or talked about it.

I was smothered; I was uncomfortably pinned; I was choked. I was shaken. I was slapped. None of these were things I asked for-- they were things that just happened, for no rhyme, and no reason. And now, a perfectly wonderful man who treats me like a princess and would never think of purposefully hurting me has to be the one picking up my pieces after I spooked at finding myself in a situation completely non-related that my mind interpreted quite differently, and sent me spinning off into a panic attack the likes of which I haven't had in quite awhile.

Maybe it was the weight of someone on top of me, while holding me down. Maybe it was the thought I had that linked this feeling with pain. Maybe it was just because I'd been having nightmares lately, and was particularly susceptible to feeling overwhelmed. But for whatever reason, I suddenly found myself fighting furiously to get out from under and away while breathing like a winded racehorse. He touched my back to ask if I was ok. I nearly screamed at him to give me space. We both took a few minutes to calm down and process, and once I realized what had happened, and what I had done, I scooched across the bed, threw my arms around him, and started crying with my face screwed up against his chest. He was lovely about it, telling me that I didn't need to tell him the full story; that he understood, even if he didn't understand everything, because we all have our own skeletons in our closets. He let me cry, rubbed my back and kissed my head, and let me work it out of my system. And once we had both calmed down again, we had sex again, possibly the most reaffirming and reassuring act that I can think of.

Please, listen to me-- if you have been mistreated in your past, please, please find some way to let your current partner know. I know it's hard, and I know it can seem at times unnecessary or excessive or like a cry for attention, but if you care about the person you're seeing, they deserve to know about your issues and emotional well-being before you find yourself hyperventilating and sobbing onto their chest like I found myself. You can only be a victim as long as you stay silent, and as long as you let yourself be thought of as such. Instead, learn to grow through the experience for the hard lessons it teaches you-- how to be in tune with your emotions, feelings, and relationships with other people. And even if this isn't something that you've been through yourself, remember-- if I can be a victim of abuse, anyone can be a victim of abuse. The best thing you can do for someone with past issues is to be there for them and try to understand what it is that makes them panic or feel a certain way, and to work through it, together.

To all the other people with "colorful pasts" out there, please know-- you're not alone, and there is someone out there who will be patient and willing with you, because that's the way it's supposed to be; I promise.

XOXO

Some Like It Hot: How Curiosity Killed The Cat, And The Relationship.

A long, long time ago, some poor schmuck in the prehistoric era discovered fire. I'm willing to bet it was a man, and the vestigial love for grilling that you still find today in modern Joes is proof of that. But secretly, or not so secretly, depending on their actions, I think it's women who like playing with fire.

Maybe it's the elevated heart rate that gets us going, the feeling of "what's gonna happen, what's gonna happen, what's gonna happen?" Because I can not make a good relationship decision to save my life (I am convinced I am going to die at the hands of a lover choking me to death for saying "Would. You. Just. DECIDE!" for the last and final time that broke the man's already tenuous at best grip on sanity [if you doubt me or my taste in men, please refer back to my track record]), I doom myself to routinely playing Russian Relationship Roulette, especially during early morning drunken hours. Most women can blame it on the same thing: It was 1/4th honest emotion, 1/4th Mr. Boston Virgin Islands white rum, and a full 1/2 a desire to know what would happen. Curiosity killed the cat-- it's also been known to kill the mood. I'll admit to it-- sometimes, women can be known to test something out just to see if they'll get burned or not. Que diabolical snickering, and the ringmaster's entrance. Things are about to get hot.

There is a sick fascination with the things in our lives that cannot be changed-- things out of our control, things we wish weren't quite so cut-and-dried, things that we really think would be perfect a different way. Playing with proverbial (or tangible) fire is one of the ways that we know we can spice up what is our usual 9-to-5. How many times have you caught yourself engaging in behavior that you know, deep down, is wrong and petty and base and destructive, just because you can? How many times have you bemoaned certain character traits or situations in life, while secretly getting off on them because, hey, isn't life more interesting when you're pretty damn sure it's about to fall down on your head at any given second? This is why, for better or for worse, I can't really point fingers, make accusations, or demand certain things from other people. Despite being ravenously curious about most things in life and a consummate player of fire myself, I have been known to occasionally (often) take the ostrich approach to my own life. Not only do I like to bury my head and pretend things aren't happening, but I also procrastinate like I get paid full-time with benefits for it. At the moment, I am:

-Putting off calling my landlord to inquire as to if I get a cut on June's rent as I can't move in nearly 10 days into the month due to building issues (I hate asking monetary-relevant questions; maybe a hold-over from a middle-class family, but it just seems so rude);

-Deciding if I should/want/will make any changes to what could be called both my stagnant and frenetic love-life (a game I like to call, "Have I Finally Had Enough, Is It Time To Move On, Or Am I A Helpless Masochistic Idiot?");

-Going to the barn to ride my sadly neglected pony because, after crossing the New York state border and walking through the front door of the barn, I swear a rift in the space/time continuum opens up, and you NEVER get out of there by the time you want to, too pulled in by girl gossip, a good ride, and the existential ravenous search after a hard ride for something tastier than slightly liquefied carrots in the barn's fridge;

-And texting a friend as to inquire as to the state, livability, and happiness with his new apartment after moving in yesterday. (Yes. I even drag my feet when it comes to my friends and people who have shown that they certifiably love me. I cannot, A.) ask for favors, B.) ask for a place to stay, or C.) ask for some clarity concerning plans without feeling like a huge, huge imposition, and a massive, massive inconvenience. One aspect in which my confidence needs vast improvement.)

It's possible I put things off because I want to pretend they don't exist, just like how women will play like fire to avoid the reality of a situation. If you're worrying about getting burned, you're not thinking about deadlines or buying more toilet paper.

Part of it probably also comes from the daredevil aspect of it. There's something so convincing in thinking of yourself as a fire-juggler that you can't help but feel as if the very act of it makes your helplessly enticing and attractive to the opposite sex. If you're so close to the heat, you've got to be so alive, so engrossing, so un-mundane. You must have, by now, heard the song "Bad Girlfriend" by Theory of a Deadman. It's on every pop radio station, and sounds kind of like a poor man's version of Nickelback, if there is such a thing and you can get any cheaper than Nickelback. But guaranteed, almost every woman reading this right now knows that song. We know the words. We sing along to, "Dirty girl, gettin' down, dance with guy from out of town. Grab her ass, actin' tough, mess with her, she'll fuck you up. No one really knows if she's drunk or if she's stoned, but she's coming back to my place tonight. She likes to shake her ass; she grinds it to the beat-- she likes to pull my hair while I make her grind her teeth. I like to strip her down; she's naughty to the end, you know what she is, no doubt about it, she's a bad, bad girlfriend."

Women like that song because it reminds us that there are aspects to our personalities or the things that we've done that drive men as crazy as we drive them; hence, the playing with fire. Sometimes you end up doing things that you know are wrong just because they feel so right. But what do you do with the guilt afterwards? After washing it down with two deep pulls straight from the bottle, I lay there…and I could still taste it. Maybe that's why we like it. Maybe it's what reminds me that I am, in fact, not great girlfriend material. Some of us are just always bound to want to rock the boat. Or the bed frame. Maybe that's why I'm single. Single? Singlish? Single with a chance of it's-raining-men showers? Single and stuck? Like I said-- eternally curious.

XOXO

The Most Important Relationship You Will Ever Have

Yesterday, I opened up February's issue of Glamour to read a Letter to the Editor that resonated with me as if I had written it myself. It reads as follows:

"I just finished '6 Love Talks That Bring You Closer' [December], and its message, 'If you feel it, say it,' hit me hard. Too many times I've held my emotions inside, whether for the sake of a friend or for fear of scaring off a guy. Thank you for reminding women it's OK to voice their minds, because they may not get the opportunity to do it later." -Laura Kell, Ottawa, Ontario

As I may have glossed over a couple of times here, I am One-Month Girl. For some reason, right around the time of the one-month mark of seeing someone approaches, it usually ends. Either I get bored with them, or they have finally been driven crazy enough by something that I do to leave (there are many quirks), or the connection was just never really there and we just stop calling or texting to see each other and drift apart.

Curious about how true this statement really is, I counted. Out of 9 relationships I have had, only 2 made it past one month. (The first was 6 months, but I was young and too apathetic to actually muster the energy to dump him on his ass like I should have. Really should have.)

Recently, I went past the one-month deadzone with a guy I was seeing, nearly effortlessly. The date came and went without nearly any fuss, barely noticed. It went over a month and a half, and-- surprise-- I would roll over and still be looking at the same person. I can't lie. I actually enjoyed it. Very much so. I hadn't had that experience since I was...and I'm not lying...16. And I actually liked the person I was waking up next to this time around.

As I had not found in my past "monthers," there's a level of comfort that can't be fully achieved in 4 weeks. Or, maybe, it's just my hyper-awareness of the timestamp and expiration date that makes me so sensitive. But nonetheless, it brought up the curious territory that I hadn't encountered yet before: communicating about what was going on.

Most people will tell you that at one-month in, you should start doing the discussing. Because of my brief and checkered past, I had learned one thing about being with men, and one thing only: whatever you feel, don't say it, because they're not going to be around long enough for it to matter. And so, I remained quiet about what I was feeling and what I hoped for, odd in what was an extremely talkative and open relationship. As for my fellow co-sleeper, he was far more expressive. But for every time he did something that could have warranted a glimpse into what I thought, I thought it to myself, and myself only. I never said, "I love being able to talk to you about writing and the fact that you're just as passionate about it as I am, or, in fact, I love being able to talk to you about anything intelligently and receptively," or "I love that I can ask you for an interesting book suggestion, or in the morning, if I really wanted to, I could grab something off your bookshelf and keep myself properly entertained until you wake up because YOU ACTUALLY HAVE A BOOKSHELF. WITH BOOKS ON IT. THAT I WOULD LOVE TO READ," (sorry. Good literature is something I get really passionate about. Mix it with men, and I'm a goner,) or "I love being able to just sit here and do absolutely nothing and still feel like it's all good and we're actually doing something," or even "No matter how many times she bites me, I adore your cat, even if she hates me because I am the Other Woman to her." I think, maybe, once, I told him that I loved being able to use my full vocabulary around him and not have to worry about getting lost in translation after dropping "ostracize" for the first time. I was definitely teased for using words like "fetching", and I definitely teased right back when he said "Bully for you."

"I don't think anyone has said that since Teddy Roosevelt died," I told him. My first defense to feelings and emotions is always to be blase. I may have even said the words "Well, it's been fun, kid," while I was saying goodbye before Christmas break. A.) He's older than I am, so who was I "kid-ding"? B.) Who the hell did I think I was with that line, Mr. Big?! and C.) Whenever I may have to say something that might be hard or uncomfortable, like, say, "I'm going to miss you," I stray instead into the obnoxiously trite and banal, like this gem of a parting statement.

Basically, when it boils down to it, there were lots of "thank you for's" and "I love when's" and "I don't think you know it, but's" that I never said. I, the perennial Single Girl, highly cynical, sarcastic, jaded, abrupt, and blunt, was trying to do the thing I do best, and protect myself in the advent that it all went wrong around that one-month mark. After it didn't, I should have known. I should have known that there is a difference between when you don't really care about the outcome of something or someone, and when you're actually invested in it, and that as soon as you begin to invest, either with time, or money, or feelings, you need to do that talking, no matter how scary it seems. As soon as I realized that, I should have started doing the talking.

But I didn't. Instead, I fell back on my crutch, being a "Shower"and not a "Teller." I hoped that the nights spent together and the small gestures and the fact that the steel trap I call my mind came up with a fitting Christmas/Thanks For Being Dislocated College Student Crash Central For Me gift would do the talking so I didn't have to. Let me be frank: I don't tend to soften for people. I am a little stiff and awkward. So the fact that I loosen up enough to call you "babe" and try to be as charming as possible around you and your friends means something. The fact I actually let you snore instead of just leaving and going back home means something. The fact that I got used to you snoring and the crumbs in bed from your eating means something HUGE. Though he may have been the one who said "Don't try to change me," I was actually the one doing the changing. I softened. For the first time, I dropped all the guards and was 100%, totally, completely me, "that's what she said" jokes, stupid superstitions, and all. And I didn't worry about it, something totally foreign and new to me.

Last week, it ended. After much thinking, I have decided that the phrase "But there's something I need to tell you" should be struck from the English vocabulary. As soon as I heard those words, I knew that shooting me point-blank with a .45 would have hurt less.

While we were having our extremely calm and mature dissolution conversation (I'm not being ironic here-- we actually had a very low-key walk-and-talk-it-over, a first for me), he looked at me and said, "Carissa, you never told me how you felt or what you wanted."

True on both counts. I was the one who, at the very beginning when he called me to ask what was going on, was the one who preached "casual, casual, casual." But that's just me. I'm a pretty casual girl. I don't really do dates, and I'm much happier just chilling at home with you or your buddies than going to a big party where I only know a few people, though I will pull myself up by the bootstraps and be a big girl and do things like introduce myself to your female friend after she walks in on me in your bed. (That one goes down in the books as one of the "Ten Most Awkward Experiences Of My Life." Right before that time in high school I had to hide in a shower because I thought my then-boyfriend's mother had come home early. And if this doesn't sound awkward enough, let me tell you which shower: the one in her private bathroom in her room. Can't you just see that discovery going over?)

I can't put my finger exactly on when it went from "casual" to "I'm actually seriously into this." It was somewhere between the drunk texts asking for a wake-up call to not let him sleep through class and the hours spent together just being totally at ease and yes, this is me, so I'm going to say it, the great sex, and the horrible puns I actually enjoyed and getting used to the smell of the cigarettes that I came to realize that I actually really liked this person I was getting to know. But I didn't say anything because honestly, it was exactly the way I wanted it, and I didn't want to say anything and have it change. As always, I was afraid that saying something would equate change, and maybe not for the better. I wanted to keep everything just as it was, so I kept quiet. Broken logic states that if you don't ask, you can't hear the response.

For fear of losing him, I kept quiet, and partially because I kept quiet, I lost him. Ladies, I am sharing this with you so you don't make the same mistake I did. Like Miss Kell said, "It's OK to voice your mind, because [you] may not get the opportunity to do it later." And because I am sure you will read this at some point-- babe, I'm sorry, but thank you again for coming clean and meeting with me and, actually, for everything. "Better late than never" is not true, but I hope that this speaks far more candidly and clearly for me than I could at the time.

In the end, it was amicable. There is nothing quite like getting the explanations and respect you deserve to show you the difference between the absolute asses you have been with before and someone who actually doesn't want to hurt you. Obviously, I am not thrilled that something that I thought was so good is now over, but you have to respect it when someone says "I'm not ready," and when both of you have things that still need to be worked on before things can progress or get any better. When someone has enough integrity to say to you, "I erred, and I'm telling you," you better listen, and listen hard. And when that same person tells you, "And here's what you could have done better," take it. We all have things to work on. Some of us may not even understand the things we do to ourselves or others, but only one truth remains-- you have to keep working at it. That's all anyone can ever ask of you. You can't change the nature of your beast so easily. It takes trial and error, blood, sweat, and tears, and lots of time. It's not going to be pretty, and generally, it's better if someone doesn't have to live with you through it. Believe me. I know. I have alternately been the girl who's tried to stick through a guy's abusive drug use because I mistakenly thought I could help and be the rock, and the girl who tried to keep the guy through my own major life changes that rendered us both incompatible.

In the end, I can't tell you which would hurt worse. I've never been shot point-blank with a .45, but I have been left, a lot. More, I would hazard to say, then my fair-share. If there is one thing that so many dissolutions have taught me, it's that you always learn something about yourself. Even just the act of being with someone else is an incredible learning experience. Someone else will always be able to open you up, pull all your shit into the light, and expose you far better than you will ever be able to yourself. So what did I learn? Firstly, I am potentially even tougher than I thought. What doesn't kill you will hurt, but I'll get through it, because I always do. Secondly, there is still more work to be done on myself before I take the next leap of faith.

In the end, as I said to him, the only person you can control in a relationship is yourself, and sometimes, not even then. You're never going to be any braver than you are this very second, so now is the time to do exactly what you need to do. Speak up. Tell them. Do what you need to. Make the changes that will let you live with yourself and not have regrets. When it comes down to it, the most important relationship that you will ever have is the one you have with yourself.

And I hope that that relationship only gets better from here.

XOXO

The Heartbreak Project

I'm taking a break from packing up my apartment (sob, sob, sob,) to share this with you, because I think it's remarkably important.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen recently.

I foresee great things happening with this project. Around the time you reach a certain age or certain number of relationships, everyone has a heartbreak story. Some people find it cathartic to share it. Some never would dream of it. Some keep it short and sweet. I'm a big fan of the six-word stories, so I'll keep my short, not so sweet, and condensed. I wrote the following for another great Facebook group started by the lovely Alli called "I Dated A Douchebag."

The Three Douchebags:
Story #1: Six months of catering. He cheated.
Alternate ending: He's married, kids now; secretly gay.

Story #2: Always, "Maybe later, baby." Never happened.

Story #3: Love. He left; disappeared. Thoroughly abandoned.

This last one is my personal heartbreak story. When I was a freshman in college, I shacked up with a senior. And then I fell in love for the first time. I can't tell you why-- he wasn't an exceptional guy in any way; in fact, I recognized this about him on a daily basis. Maybe it was just time for me. Anyway, I fell in love, and he graduated, left, moved back home, and completely washed his hands of me. There were no calls. No emails. No communication whatsoever. Witness Protection would have been proud. It was as if a friend you saw every day was suddenly not there, and you had know idea why. It was like missing my left arm. Even after he got arrested and I left a message asking if he could please let me know he was ok, I heard nothing. Nothing. This has resulted in some abandonment issues. I am terrified of being left this way again. I am terrified that any given day, the calls will stop; the communication lines, always tenuous with me in the first place, will break down; someone will have upped and moved away on me, either physically or metaphorically; that the places I once saw someone in will be empty.

After an entire summer and fall, an ocean of tears, hundreds of pages of writing, and countless hundreds of dollars spent smoking myself into an unfeeling oblivion, I woke up one morning completely free of him. Just as quickly as I fell into love, I fell out of love with him. It felt like the moon had suddenly stopped orbiting around the sun, and snapped off into deep space. In the end, I don't regret any of it: I don't regret taking that insane leap and falling in love for the first time; I don't regret what I learned about myself through the pain and the smoke and the writing; I don't regret equally ignoring him for the past year now that he's tried getting back in touch with me. From an utterly unremarkable relationship, I gained some truly remarkable knowledge. I feel; I love; I am.

And so, the (heart)beat goes on.

XOXO

"Business As Usual" Meets "Girl At Play".

First of all, I would love to send a very big, very warm “thank you” to Miss Molly Ford, the genius behind http://www.smartprettyandawkward.com/ . I started reading “Smart, Pretty, and Awkward” last semester, and it quickly became a daily thing. As you may have gathered by now, I may not be the most tactful person, and Molly’s tips, hints, and advice smooth out my rough Vermont girl edges quite nicely. (There are even rumors about integrating me back into normal society shortly!) Running a blog is never an easy thing—I wish I could convey to you what comments, page views, and feedback mean to (especially a new-comer like) me, but unless you blog as well, it’s hard to comprehend. When someone does you a solid, as Molly did for me today by featuring me on her blog, I only know one way to respond: heart-felt public appreciation. I swear to god, if you don’t already, start reading http://www.smartprettyandawkward.com/ EVERY DAY. It doesn’t even matter if you already have the social graces of an English aristocrat—if you’re a quote-whore like me, the quote headings each day will fill you with glee, too. So, thank you, Molly.

Second order of business: It has been brought to my attention, frequently, by numerous people, that my blog posts tend to be a little long to get through. The person who may have said it best would be my trainer Alli (not to be confused with my roommate, Alli,) back at home. I believe the comment was, “And you said Stephenie Meyer should be shot for killing trees.” Granted, I publish electronically and the only reason Alli was getting the printed-out version of my blog was because she doesn’t have internet access (yes! Places like that, where high-speed internet can’t even be brought to exist, especially in the Northeast!), but I get the point. (Apparently it totaled more than forty pages. Yikes.) I will try to get to-the-point in a more condensed manner in the future.

Another Alli, Alli The Roommate, started a wonderful Facebook group after being goaded to it by some rather wonderful people; namely, Yours Truly. “I Dated A Douchebag” is a group where survivors, regardless of gender, orientation, or level of significant other’s douchebaggery, can go to rant, rave, plot, and sympathize with other ex-victims. Here’s a link to the group—if you have something you feel you can contribute, be it an ironic, blood-boiling, or he-got-his-comeuppance story or if you need someplace to be the Crazy Bitch or Crazy Bastard you never let your Douchebag see, please visit and/or join. We love new people. (Some of us more than others.)” I Dated A Douchebag”: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=105042186747&ref=mf&__a=1

And I think that’s all for Bloggery Business, so I will get back to working on the next two columns I have in the works, and your previously scheduled programming. It looks like you can check back within the next twelve hours for a column on tips, hints, tricks and anecdotes about being the most stellar girlfriend (or boyfriend) your significant other has ever known, as well as another column on what is happening in the Perfect world, as people (even other than myself!) are starting to get confused. Plus, some recent developments on the Hostage Relationship front have panned out, so we have to delve into that, right? (Dear readers—holding a relationship hostage—it apparently works! Shocked, rather pleasantly.)

Until then, keep your pants on and stay close to your monitor. Also, tell your friends about this blog, really. I’m an attention-whore, if not any other type of whore. (I am also not shy, or shy about complete strangers knowing the inner-workings of my love-life, or lack thereof.)

XOXO